For the first time in a couple of weeks, I find myself home
at a “decent hour”, ready to sleep and trying to unwind before work tomorrow.
It’s a silent night, and the first one among many that I don’t mind. In fact, I
think I am adjusting.
Now that the whirlwind of holidays has passed, and the calm
of January begins to set it, I can reflect on the holiday season and what it
means to me. When it comes to Christmas, I respect how various people express
their faith and love during the holiday. I believe in rejoicing for love,
rejoicing for life, whether it be on Christmas, today, yesterday, tomorrow, or
everyday. Therefore, it gladdens me to see families and friends come together
for dinner, parties, or other celebrations. I even like how Christmas has
evolved to be more inclusive – I've met many people who celebrate Christmas for
the unity in family and not for the religious aspect, and I see the beauty in
that.
One thing I cannot stand during the holidays is silence. Two
years ago, when I stayed in Japan for Christmas, I felt a silence so deep it
left me chilled. I judged by the calendar and decorations around me that the
holiday was approaching, but Christmas in Japan was deceiving. Instead of
feeling happy in the unity of family or friends, people sulked because they
were alone and not in a relationship. You see, Christmas in Japan – for
non-Christians – is a couple's holiday, a Valentine's Day of a sort. And this
negativity is contagious at most, and dampens spirits at least. Coming from a Western
country where Christmas is about family and generosity, and being raised in a
family where it's about reflecting and divinity, I felt a cloud over my head
and a breeze of homesickness on Christmas Day.
Luckily, the days leading to Christmas in 2010 had a touch
of magic. A couple of weeks before Christmas, I went to Universal Studios with
my Japanese family, and I felt the love of Christmas in their unity, kindness,
and generosity. That night, we watched a Christmas show full of lights and
traditional songs of the season. It was cold that night, but I felt the warmth
of the season. On Christmas Eve, some friends and I got together to celebrate
the holiday, and I felt the warmth in everyone's desire to share a home cooked
meal. If it hadn't been for those people, Christmas would have passed right by
my door.
Last Christmas, I came
home for the holidays. I couldn't bear to pass another Christmas without some
of the things or people I value the most. On Christmas Eve, we went to my
aunt's house. For the first time in 30 years, my grandmother spent Christmas
with all of her children. That night, after dinner, we all felt compelled to
share our thoughts on the holiday and give recognition to everyone who was present
for supporting us, encouraging us and loving us. It was spontaneous. It was
sincere, and it was heartfelt. There was no silence that night around me, and I
felt uplifted.
This year, we had a
smaller reunion, and the unity and gratitude was still there. This year, too, I
wasn't subject to the deafening silence of Christmas in Japan. After dinner, we
gathered around to talk about the season, and some of my family members spoke
about the changes they want to make in the upcoming year. This time, though,
when I tried to speak, I couldn't formulate my thoughts. I couldn't think of
anything non-generic to say. The dreaded silence was coming from within me. For
the first time in a long time, I lost my voice. Instead of the silence being
forced onto me from exterior forces, the silence was coming from within.
I haven’t been able to
pinpoint the exact cause, but circumstantially, I've been gradually pushed into
silence these past two and a half years. Though people want to hear about my
experiences in Japan, I feel influenced by others' reactions to stay quiet.
Though people are understanding and caring, the fact is that most can't relate
when they've never lived through a similar experience. And the bottom line is,
people can grow tired of hearing about the same subject over and over again.
It’s been four months, for crying out loud! I understand this, yet I find it
hard to close a chapter in my life when I can't speak about it. But mostly, I recognize
that I’m being too hard on myself. I don’t want to be “that girl” who’s stuck
in the past, so I don’t say much. My time abroad changed me tremendously and I
am unable to fully share it. At the end of the day, it also hurts to be too
nostalgic. I need closure and I have a feeling it won't be coming easily.
You're going to go
through many changes, they said, and people might not understand. Relationships
have changed, they warned. You might not fit in, they teased. They said it
would all be a normal part of reintegration, but nothing anyone said prepared
me for this echo inside of me. My voice has been extinguished and I don't know
where to find a single match. That is the most frustrating component.
The truth is, my time
away has had a curious effect on me. In terms of relationships, they have
changed, and I feel that I am not entitled to complain, to be confused or to be
hurt by it. I'm the one who left, after all. But just like everyone else, I was
chasing my dreams, and mine inspired me to chase the sun far, far away. I don’t
want to have to justify my happiness, my sadness, nor my confusion. Maybe one day
we can understand each other, but for now I’m just trying to understand myself
and the ways in which I’ve grown.
One thing I hope
others can understand is how I've learned to deal with simple and complex problems.
I was used to living alone, so I internalized issues, and mostly dealt with
them myself. One day I woke up and didn't need everyone's opinion on everything,
as valuable as it might have been.
The aspects of living in Japan that took a lot of getting
used to became my comfort. Being anonymous – despite standing out – in a crowd
full of people that couldn't fully understand me, became my comfort. It
explained why I felt confused at times, why I stood out, why I was different.
But returning to a place where I look like everyone else, where I speak the
same language, doesn’t explain why people still can’t understand me nor why I
can’t understand them.
I've lost my voice, and she needs to be found. As you may have noticed, I also disappeared from this
blog. I am facing major writer’s block, when writing used to be something relaxing.
I’m learning that no matter how hard you look and think
you’ve found the better and stronger version of yourself, you can't fully find
yourself in one experience. Challenges present you with puzzles and lots of
mysteries along the way, and many of us like to constantly challenge ourselves,
so we must endure the transition periods. Every new adventure is a time to
rediscover the things you enjoy, to find your motivation and your muse in a
foreign place, and to be comfortable with change. It's a lot more difficult to
do this when you return to a place you’ve previously been in, a place with
history, a place where you've formed friendships, fallen in love, spent your
childhood. When you return and want to start anew, you feel as if you're taking
two steps back before you can move one forward. That’s how I feel right now,
and I hope it's true when they say the harder the struggle, the more you learn.
Until then, until I can move with ease in this city, I will have
to persevere.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, my mind drifts off to a far
away city. It recalls a train system so complex you might end up at your
starting point. It begins to sparkle with an image of hundreds of lit-up
windows on massive buildings. It feels the density of cities, and the serenity
of the countryside and its evergreen mountains and clear water. I can feel
cold, and instantly switch to humidity. I remember faces that I used to see regularly,
some of which I’ll never see again. I think of my students and the joys and
challenges of teaching them. I think of my friends and how much I miss them. In
this process, I begin to find my voice. I begin to feel inspired to describe,
to write, to share, to dream, to chase. As usual, I am optimistic and confident
in my ability to be fierce again.
I can’t revisit my two years in Japan, nor would I want to
relive them if I could. For one, I have experienced enough delight and wonder
to last a lifetime. And then, some of the lessons I learned were earned at a
high price. I wouldn’t want to relive those moments. I have my memories, my
moon watching over me, and the connections I’ve made with people. From the
bottom of my heart, I thank you for those, Japan.
I am reaching the end of this blog post, and with it the end
of this blog. I find myself stalling, without an effortless way to end this
entry, reading back and noticing a lot of fragmented thoughts. Looking back and
counting the stories I left untold. That’s the thing about life – there are many
unsmooth transitions and unfulfilled promises. Sometimes, we just have to admit
that we’re stuck, and go forward as best as we can. I started this journey (and
blog) in tears, full of things to say and emotions that I could express clearly.
I continued this journey with enthusiasm, critique and optimism. I end this
journey feeling grateful, touched, but at a loss for words. Don’t
you worry though, it was all worth it. I’d do it all again. Even though
I feel the impact of these silent nights, I’d do it all again. I’m happy.
Thank you for sharing my adventures (or mishaps!) in Japan with me. I'm a grateful bunny. I’ll be
back before you know it, with a new adventure to share.
Forever Yours,
Kelly Sensei
ケリー先生
